Page 328 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
And it fucking hurts.
At eight years old, I literally died for her, and it didn’t hurt as much as this, as what it does, looking over to her room, knowing she’s naked in there with some other guy.
I grit my teeth, keeping the pain inside. I swallow, and another hint of yesterday’s regurgitated lunch slips down my throat. The very same second, a cold tear falls down my cheek.
Still, no message.
Still, there’s moaning and grunting and creaks from her bed.
I fall back on mine, dropping my phone somewhere on the springy mattress as I place my hands over my ears not to hear Shane get closer to his climax.
Trying to block out the noise is an impossibility. The cracks on the ceiling mimic how I imagine my brain to look, as I can’t help but picture him mounting her like a wild animal. Those I stare at don’t deepen with each of Shane’s effortless thrusts and breathless grunts, but the cracks inside me do—mind and heart.
It’s loud from here with nothing but a hallway between us, and it makes me wish I were deaf. Dead.
Makes me wish he were dead.
I slip from the bed, and the satin sheets fall to the floor as I head toward the bathroom. I don’t spare the inevitable germs more than a single thought, because Dollie has all my thoughts right now. Dollie and Shane, who I fucking hate more than anyone who has ever walked this earth.
My little silver shard waits for me on the shower floor, my blood still on the tip, offering a trade between pains.
Physical pain, I can handle.
It will help…
Dragging it across my flesh, the sound of Dollie getting fucked by that guy she claims she’s ending things with, mingles with the noise of my skin scraping away.
I saw harder, needing the physical pain to override the emotional turmoil as I circle my arm with the sharp edge.
There’s no way their moans make it to this bathroom, but somehow, they echo off the walls.
I move to the other wrist, the unscarred space welcoming my shard like the other arm did.
It’s all in my head.
But I can’t escape it.
I can’t take it.
I raise my hands to my ears again to block it out, and it only gets louder. Louder. LOUDER.
Blood drips down my arms, and the smell of it makes me want to vomit again.
It’s tainted. I’m tainted.
Because of one freak and two bad parents.
A ruined puppet on a string because of a man in face paint who is no longer breathing. He’s literally worm food, and yet, he still controls everything.
I toss the shard into the distance.
The clang of it bouncing off the tiles and pinging somewhere out of sight echoes with the moans I can’t rid from my head.
I lean over myself and retch, for multiple reasons.
Nothing comes out.
Still, I retch.
